


Broken Man

by littlehands



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-23
Updated: 2010-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehands/pseuds/littlehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I feel like my soul was lost somewhere among the blood I spilled on the pavement." AU of Season 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Man

  
The world faded to black once again, for that second time that day, he noted that he could hear them speaking Russian, not English. As he fell to the floor he wished he had taken Russian in college instead of the copout French class. Maybe I'd be able to get something from their yelling, besides a headache. The beatings have been getting worse, he observed the pain taking over, flooding his nerves. Head flat against the cold concrete, sticky against his temples, must be blood, remembering the kicks to the head. Another day done, or night, he hasn't seen the sun or sky or grass for a month. Coughing, then cringing in pain, yet another cracked rib. Closing his eyes as the pain radiated out, willing the sleep of blackness to come.

But then he woke up.

"Michael, you're sweating, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, just had a bad dream that's all."

"Do you want to talk about it? Aren't you supposed to talk about them?"

"In the morning, Syd. I need to get some sleep."

"How long are we going to pretend that it didn't happen?"

As long as it takes for me to forget, I think. She means well, but she wasn't there, she's never gone though the pain, not like that. I'll go though it time and time again to protect her from it, but leave me my dreams.

The morning comes fast, never enough time to get any rest. I'm living on what little sleep I do get as I hold Syd in my arms, both of us panting and hearts racing. Then my sleep is dreamless, when my body is too tired. But it's never enough, the dreams always come, and with them the memories.

The whole time I remember thinking, thank god it's not her. Thank god it's not her skin they are piercing with the blade, thank god it's not her bones they are shattering. But as much as I'm glad that it's not her, I wish it wasn't me.

The shower is warm, covering my body. My body, some days it doesn't even feel like mine, some other persons. Covered in scars, almost invisible bruises that I can still feel. My whole body is covered with reminders, my fingers still stiff every morning, and my back aches if I sit too long. But I don't let anyone know, they see a man who had a bad experience, not the broken man that I am.

Broken man.

That's what I am, but no one knows it. Not anyone, I've gotten good at masking the pain, the memories. I go to work, go home with my girlfriend, go though the motions of a good life, but I'm stuck back in that cell everything. The pain never ends. It comes back at night, when I'm lost in thought.

I have my triggers, certain words, accents, sounds. Someone yelling in Russian, but not like just any Russian, but certain words, I don't know what they mean, but my body freaks out. They are normal words, nothing evil about them. They make me freeze and my whole body goes numb. Or sometimes I just get this feeling like a knife being dragged along my spine. I shiver on the outside as I'm being torn apart on the inside.

"You look like hell, man."

I feel like my soul was lost somewhere among the blood I spilled on the pavement.

"Just still not sleeping well. That's all."

I can't feel anything anymore, other then her touch sometimes, but only when she's looking at me like I'm really there. Sometimes I'm lost in her mind, sometimes she doesn't see me.

"I'd though that you living with Syd would have worn you out."

She thought I was dead, how do you make love to a dead man?

"Yeah, well...anyway, off to lunch?"

She lost me, lost the man of her dreams. She got back a fragment, a shadow of me.

The scar runs from my left shoulder down my back, stopping around my hip. She doesn't ask why I leave a shirt on during sex; I can't stand her fingers on it. Even her soft, tapered fingers feel like the rough ones of the man who smelled like vinegar who took so much pride in his work.

He spoke English to me, but I never replied. He tried to talk it out of me, but I must have pushed his buttons, 'cause that's when the knife came out. Like the one that my father used to gut fish on our only father and son trip.

Father.

I was going to be a father. Syd was a month along when I disappeared. Everyone knew at work, it was exciting. Jack wasn't as pleased, we still weren't even engaged. But I had the ring in my dresser drawer. I was going to wait until the first ultra sound, I was so happy. It's the elusive memory, to remember what it was like to feel, to dream, to hope.

But that's gone. She had a miscarriage after she saw the first ransom pictures after two weeks. I was covered in burns, burses, and cuts. One of my eyes had swollen shut, and my lip was split. She said it was the fingers that did her in, my pinkies broken, missing most of my nails. She said that she could remember how those fingers touched her, and it was too much.

I want to talk to her, tell her how she was the only thing I thought of, but I can't. She's so happy now, to have me back, to have a normal life. For a while I wondered if I should propose; that if she had a ring, I'd suddenly open up to her. But the ring is still in the box.

I love her, I never will stop loving her, but our love is different now. She is elusive to me, that she exists on a different plain. She gets happy watching the dog chase the birds, a funny commercial on tv, or just sitting with me. And I see how these things are happy, but I can't feel.

"Michael?"

They always called me Agent Vaughn, never Michael, that's one of the few things that lightens the weight a bit. That's my name; they didn't take that away from me.

"Yeah?"

She's sitting right in front of me, blocking the tv, sport center on mute.

"I want you to tell me about it."

"What?"

"I want you to tell be about those 6 months. You need to talk about it."

She's so earnest, eyes big in the dim light.

"I can't, Syd. I don't want to hurt you."

She's taking my hands, running her fingers over the scars, I shiver inside.

"I'm not afraid Michael, I'm not scared."

Her soft hands cup my face, I can't run, can't look away. She runs her thumb across the scar on my cheek, almost invisible, but not to her touch.

She moves forward on the table. Our knees touching, she's warm.

"Please, I can't stand to see you like this."

Her eyes plead, begging me to open up, and let them in like I use to. We use to have the stares of teenagers full of lust. Now I look at her with love, but it's not the same.

I close my eyes to shut out the images. But when I open them I see the tears in her eyes, like rain, clear droplets on her cheeks. And I can't stand it anymore, the gates open and the horror starts to flow out.

Slowly at first, them more and more, not holding it back. All of it every cut, every burn; tell it for the first time to someone I loved. And then it's done, all out in the word, in my voice echoing thought the room.

She's quiet for what seems like forever, holding my hands, rivulets of tears on her skin.

"I love you Michael, that's all I have. I can't make it go away, what you went though. All I can do is love you and hope that will be enough."

And I kiss her, for the works can't escape my lips, but I try to show her, how much it means to me.

It's not all gone in an instant but it helps, it helps to get me back peace by peace. And I'm broken, but I broke free of the pain and the despair. Slowly putting everything back together, with her, her steady hands leading mine.


End file.
